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lOx  14x  ISx   22x  26x  30x 

I    I    I    I    I    I    I    I    I    I    1^1    I    I    I    I    I    I    I    I    I    I  l~ 

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Ce  titre  a  ete  m'crofilme  avec  I'aimable  autorisation 
du  detenteur  des  droits: 


David  H.  Stringer 


David  H.  Stringer 


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d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par  la  derniere  page 
qui  comporte  une  telle  empreinte. 

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en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre  d  'images 
necessaire,  Les  diagrammes  suivants  illustrent  la 
methode. 


1 


2 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

3 


OPEN  WATER 


OPEN  WATER 


BY 

ARTHUR  STRINGER 

AUTHOS  or 

"XH£  WOlfAN  IN  THE  SAIN,"  "UUSH  POEMS."  £/•  . 


NEW  YORK  — JOHN  LANE  CO  V 
LONDON— JOHN  LANE— THE  BODLEV  ^AD 
TORONTO— BELL  &  COCKBURN— MC  XIV 


•{57218 


( ■f)!>vrit'lit.  1  ji  4.  I.'V 
JOHN  LANL  COMPANY 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Co. 
New  York,  f.  S.  A. 


00037453 


CONTENTS 

PAt^  ^ 

A  FOREW 

Milkweed  .   ai 

Home  Thoughts   23 

Life   24 

Some  Day,  Oh  Seeker  or  Dreams   26 

Black  Hccrs   28 

Before  Renewal   30 

Hnj-Top  Hours   33 

Letters  from  Home   34 

Chains   37 

The  Drums   39 

ANiESTHKSIA   41 

A  Summer  Night   43 

Sappho's  Tomb    44 

V 


vi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Wild  Swans  Pass   49 

At  Notre  Dame   51 

The  Pilot   54 

Docks   56 

'RING  Floods   58 

The  Turn  of  the  Year   61 

Ip  I  Love  You   62 

What  Shall  I  Care?   64 

Huntek  ajo  Hunted   66 

APP15  Blossoms   68 

Th^Pouse  of  Life   69 

Ultimata  

The  Life  on  the  Table   75 

You  Bid  Me  to  Sleep   y6 

The  Last  of  Summer   78 

At  Charing  Cross   80 

presctence   82 

The  Steel  Workers   84 

The  Children   86 


CONTENTS  vii 

PAGE 

The  NocnjKNE   88 

The  Wild  Geese   90 

The  Day   92 

The  Revolt   94 

Atavism   97 

March  Twiught   99 

The  Echo   loi 

Autumn   103 

Faces   104 

There  Is  Strength  in  the  Son,   107 

Life-Drunk   108 

My  Heart  Stood  Empty   no 

One  Night  in  the  Northwest   m 

Dreamers   112 

The  Question  

The  jut  of  Hate    n6 

The  Dream   118 

One  Room  in  My  Heart   120 

The  Meaning   121 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Veil   122 

The  Man  of  Dreams   124 

April  on  the  Rialto   125 

The  Scrrexder   127 

The  Passing    128 

Protestations   130 

I  Sax  in  the  Sunughi   132 


A  FOREWORD 


To  even  the  casual  reader  of  poetry  who  may 
chance  to  turn  to  the  following  pages  it  will  be 
evident  that  the  lyrics  contained  therein  have  been 
written  without  what  is  commonly  known  as  end- 
rhyme.  It  may  also  be  claimed  by  this  reader  that 
the  lyrics  before  him  are  without  rhythm.  As 
such,  it  may  at  first  seem  that  they  mark  an  effort 
in  revolt  against  two  of  the  primary  assets  of 
modern  versification. 

All  art,  of  course,  has  its  ancestry.  While  it 
is  the  duty  of  poetry  both  to  remember  and  to 
honour  its  inherited  grandeurs,  the  paradoxical 
fact  remains  that  even  this  most  convention-rid- 
den medium  of  emotional  expression  is  a  sort  of 
warfare  between  the  embattled  soul  of  the  artist, 
seeking  articulation,  and  the  immuring  traditions 
with  which  time  and  the  prosodian  have  sur- 
rounded him. 

In  painting  and  in  music,  as  in  sculpture  and 

9 


lO 


OPEN  WATER 


the  drama,  there  has  been  a  movement  of  late  to 
achieve  what  may  be  called  formal  emancipation, 
a  struggle  to  break  away  from  the  restraints  and 
the  technical  obligations  imposed  upon  the  worker 
by  his  artistic  predecessors.  Iri  one  case  this 
movement  may  be  called  Futurism,  and  in  an- 
other it  may  be  termed  Romanticism,  but  the  ten- 
dency is  the  same.  The  spirit  of  man  is  seen  in 
rebellion  against  a  form  that  has  become  loo  in- 
tricate or  too  fixed  to  allow  him  freedom  of  utter- 
ance. 

Poetry  alone,  during  the  last  century,  seems 
to  have  remained  stable,  in  the  matter  of  struc- 
ture. Few  new  forms  have  been  invented,  and 
with  one  or  two  rare  exceptions  success  has  been 
achieved  through  ingeniously  elaborating  on  an 
already  established  formula  and  through  meticu- 
lously re-echoing  what  has  already  been  said. 
This  has  resulted,  on  the  one  hand,  in  a  technical 
dexterity  which  often  enough  resembles  the 
strained  postures  of  acrobati.'^m,  and,  on  the  other, 
in  that  constantly  reiterated  complaint  as  to  the 
hollowness  and  aloofness  of  modern  poetry.  Yet 
this  poetry  is  remote  and  insincere,  not  because 
the  modern  spirit  is  incapable  of  feeling,  but  be- 


A  FOREWORD 


II 


cause  what  the  singer  of  to-day  has  felt  has  not 
been  directly  and  openly  expre.-  ed.  His  apparel 
has  remained  mediaeval.  He  must  still  don  mail 
to  face  Mausers,  and  wear  chain-armour  against 
machine-guns.  He  must  scout  through  the  shad- 
owy hinterlands  of  consciousness  in  attire  that 
ni ./  be  historic,  yet  at  the  same  time  is  distress- 
ingly conspicuous.  And  when  he  begins  his  as- 
sault on  those  favouring  moments  or  inspirational 
moods  which  lurk  in  the  deeper  valleys  and  by- 
ways of  sensibility,  he  must  begin  it  as  a  marked 
man,  pathetically  resplendent  in  that  rigid  steel 
which  is  an  anachronism  and  no  longer  an  ar- 
mour. 

Rhyme,  from  the  first,  has  been  imposed  upon 
him.  His  only  escape  from  rhyme  has  been  the 
larger  utterance  of  blank  verse.  Yet  the  iambic 
pentameter  of  his  native  tongue,  perfected  in  the 
sweeping  sonority  of  the  later  Shakes{)earean 
tragedies  and  left  even  more  intimidatingly  aus- 
tere in  the  organ-like  roll  of  Milton,  has  been 
found  by  the  later  singer  to  be  ill-fitted  for  the 
utteran'*'.  ot  those  more  intimate  moods  and  those 
oubject  ex|>eri';ncijs  which  may  be  described 
as  characteristi^lly  modem.   Verse,  in  the  na- 


12 


OPEN  WATER 


ture  of  things,  has  become  less  epic  and  racial, 
anf'  more  and  more  lyric  and  personal.  The 
poet,  consequently,  has  been  forced  back  into  the 
narrower  domain  so  formally  and  so  rigidly 
fenced  in  by  rhyme.  .And  before  touching  on  the 
limitatior<:  resulting  from  this  incarceration,  it 
may  be  worth  while  to  venture  a  brief  glance 
back  over  the  history  of  what  Milton  himself 
denominated  as  "the  jingling  sounds  of  like  end- 
ings" and  Goldsmith  characterized  as  *'a  vile 
monotony"  and  even  Howells  has  spoken  of  as 
"the  artificial  trammels  of  verse." 

Ii  has  been  claimed  that  those  early  poets  of 
Palestine  who  afTected  the  custom  of  beginning  a 
number  of  lines  or  stanzas  with  the  same  letter 
of  the  alphabet  unconsciously  prepared  the  way 
for  that  latter-day  ornamental  fringe  known  as 
end-rhyme.  Others  have  claimed  that  this  in- 
sistence of  a  consonance  of  terminals  is  a  reliquc 
of  the  communal  force  of  the  chant,  where  the 
clapping  of  hands,  the  stamping  of  feet,  or  the 
twanging  of  bow-strings  marked  the  period-ends 
of  prehistoric  recitative.  The  bow-string  of 
course,  later  evolved  into  the  musical  instrument, 
and  when  poetry  became  a  written  as  well  as  a 


A  FOREWORD 


13 


six)ken  language  the  consonantal  drone  of  rhym- 
ing end-words  took  the  place  of  the  discarded  in- 
strument which  had  served  to  mark  a  secondary 
and  wider  rhythm  in  the  progress  of  impassioned 
recitative. 

It  must  be  admitted,  however,  even  in  the  face 
of  this  ingenious  pleading,  that  rhyme  is  a  much 
more  modem  invention  than  it  seems.  That  it  L 
not  rudimentary  in  the  race  is  evidenced  by  the 
fact  thai  many  languages,  such  as  the  Celtic,  the 
Teutonic,  and  the  Scandinavian,  arr  quite  without 
it.  The  Greeks,  even  in  their  melic  poetry, 
saw  no  need  for  it.  The  same  may  t  said 
of  the  Romans,  though  with  them  it  wiL 
occasionally  be  found  that  the  semi-feet  of 
the  pentameter  constitute  what  may  be  called 
accidental  rhyme.  Rhyming  Latin  verse,  in- 
deed, does  not  cone  into  existence  until  the 
end  of  the  fourth  century,  and  it  is  not  until  the 
time  of  the  Conquest  that  end-rhyme  becomes  in 
any  way  general  in  English  song.  Layman,  in 
translating  Wace's  Le  Brut  d'Angletcrre,  found 
the  original  work  written  in  rhymed  lines,  and  in 
following  that  early  model  produced  what  is  prob- 
ably the  first  rhymed  poem  written  in  England. 


OPEN  WATER 


With  the  introduction  of  end-rhymes  came  the 
discovery  that  a  decoration  so  formal  could  con- 
vert verse  into  something  approaching  the  archi- 
tectural. It  gave  design  to  the  lyric.  With  this 
new  definiteness  of  outline,  of  course,  came  a 
newer  rigidity  of  medium.  Form  was  acknowl- 
edged as  the  \isible  presentation  of  this  particu- 
lar art.  Formal  va.  iations  became  a  matter  of 
studious  attention.  Efforts  were  made  to  leave 
language  in  itself  instrumental,  and  in  these  ef- 
forts sound  frequently  comes  perilously  near 
triumphing  over  sense.  The  exotic  formal 
growths  of  other  languages  were  in  j)orted  into 
England.  No  verbal  tour  dc  force  of  troubadour 
or  tr Oliver c  or  jongleur  or  Ronsardi.st  was  too 
fantastic  for  imitation  and  adoption.  The  one- 
time primitive  directness  of  English  was  over- 
run by  such  forms  as  the  ballade,  the  chant  royal, 
the  rondel,  the  kyrielle,  the  rondeau  and  the  ron- 
deau redouble,  the  virelai  and  the  pantoum,  the 
sestina,  the  villanelle,  and  last,  yet  b}-  no  means 
least,  the  sonnet.  But  through  the  immense  tan- 
gle of  our  intricate  lyric  growths  it  can  now  be 
seen  that  mere  mechanics  do  not  always  make 
poetry.     While  rhyme  has,  indeed,  served  its 


A  FOREWORD  I5 

limited  purposes,  it  must  be  remembered  that  the 
highest  English  verse  has  been  written  without 
rhyme.  This  verbal  embroidery,  while  it  presents 
to  the  workman  in  words  a  pleasingly  decorative 
form,  at  the  same  time  imposes  on  him  both  an 
adventitious  restraint  and  an  increased  self-con- 
sciousness.   The  twentieth  century  poet,  singing 
with  his  scrupulously  polished  vocalisation,  usu- 
ally finds  himself  content  to  re-echo  what  has 
been  said  before.  He  is  unable  to  "travel  lio-ht"  ■ 
pioneering  with  so  heavy  a  burden  is  out  of  the 
question.   Rhyme  and  meter  have  compelled  him 
to  sacrifice  content  for  form.   It  has  left  him  in- 
capable of  what  may  be  called  abandonment.  And 
the  consciousness  of  his  technical  impedimenta 
has  limited  the  roads  along  which  he  may  adven- 
ture.   His  preoccupation  with  formal  exactions 
has  implanted  in  him  an  instinctive  abhorrence 
for  anything  beyond  the  control  of  what  he  calls 
common-sense.  Dominated  by  this  emotional  and 
intellectual  timidity,  he  has  attributed  to  end- 
rhyme  and  accentual  rhythm  the  selt-sufficiency 
of  mystic  rites,  in  the  face  of  the  fact  that  the 
fewer  the  obstacles  between  feeling  and  expres- 
sion the  richer  the  literary  product  must  be,  and 


i6 


OPEN  WATER 


forgetting,  too.  that  poetry  rcpr-sents  the  ex- 
treme vanguard  of  consciousness  both  adventur- 
ing and  pioneering  along  the  path  of  future  pro- 
gress. 

For  the  poet  to  turn  his  back  on  rhythm,  as  at 
times  he  has  been  able  to  do  with  rhyme,  is  an 
impossibihty.  Vor  the  rhythniising  instinct  is  in- 
nate and  persistent  in  man,  standing  for  a  law 
which  permeates  every  manifestation  of  energy. 
The  great  heart,  of  Nature  itself  beats  with  a 
regular  systole  and  diastole.  But,  rhythmically, 
the  modem  versifier  has  been  a  Cubist  without 
quite  comprehending  it.  He  has  been  viewing  the 
world  mathematically.  He  has  been  crowding 
his  soul  into  a  geometrically  designed  mould.  He 
has  bowed  to  a  rule-of -thumb  order  of  speech, 
arbitrarily  imposed  on  him  by  an  ancestry  which 
wrung  its  ingenuous  pleasure  out  of  an  ingenuous 
regularity  of  stress  and  accent.  To  succeed  under 
that  law  he  must  practise  an  adroit  form  of  self- 
deception,  solemnly  pretending  to  his  lines  to 
a  mould  which  he  actually  over-runs  and  oc- 
casionally ignores.  He  has  not  been  satisfied  with 
the  rhythm  of  Nature,  whose  heart-beats  in  their 
manifold  expressions  are  omnipresent  but  never 


A  FOREWORD 


confined  to  any  single  sustained  pulse  or  any  one 
limited  movement.    It  is  not  argued  that  he 
should  ignore  rhythm  altogether.   To  do  so,  as 
has  already  been  said,  would  be  impossible,  since 
life  itself  is  sustained  by  the  rise  and  fall  of  mor- 
tal breasts  and  the  beat  and  throb  of  mortal 
hearts.    Rhythm  is  in  man's  blood.   The  ear  of 
the  world  instinctively  searches  for  cadences.  The 
poet's  cfTorts  towards  symphonic  phrasing  have 
long  since  become  habitual  and  imperative.  But 
that  he  shcnild  confine  himself  to  certain  man- 
made  laws  of  meter,  that  he  should  be  shackled 
by  the  prosodian  of  the  past,  is  quite  another 
matter.    His  predecessors  have  fashioned  many 
rhythms  that  are  pretty,  many  accentual  forms 
that  are  cunningly  intricate,  but  at  a  time  when 
his  manner  of  singing  has  lost  its  vital  swing  it 
is  well  for  man  to  forget  these  formal  pietti- 
nesses  and  equally  well  to  remember  that  pnetr> 
is  not  an  intellectual  exercise  but  the  inn  ^1 
soul  of  perplexed  mortality  seeking  express  ,n. 

To  abandon  fixed  rhythm,  or  meter,  for  the 
floating  rhythm  of  the  chant  may  not  be  an  im- 
mediate solution  of  the  problem.  To  follow  the 
Psalms  of  David,  for  example,  will  not  suddenly 


lo  OPKN  WATKR 

conjure  a  new  school  of  verse  into  the  world. 
But  to  return  to  the  more  open  movement  of  the 
chant,  which  is  man's  natural  and  rudimentary 
form  oi  song,  may  constitute  a  step  towards  free- 
dom. The  mere  effort  towards  emancipation,  in 
fact,  is  not  without  its  \ahic.  It  may  serve  to 
impress  on  certain  minds  the  fact  th.'t  poetry  is 
c..,.c*ule  of  cxhaiistinj,'  one  particular  form  of  ex- 
pression, of  incorporating^  and  consuminj^  one 
particular  embodiment  of  perishable  matter  and 
passing  on  to  its  newer  fields.  Being  a  living  or- 
ganism, it  uses  up  what  lies  before  it,  and  to  find 
new  vigour  must  forever  feed  on  new  forms.  Be- 
ing the  product  of  man's  spirit,  which  is  forever 
subject  to  change,  verse  must  not  be  worshipped 
for  what  it  has  been,  but  for  what  it  is  capable 
of  being.  No  necrophilia  regard  for  its  estab- 
lished conventions  must  blind  the  lover  of  beauti- 
ful verse  to  the  fact  that  the  primary  function  of 
poetry  is  both  to  intellectnalize  sensation  and  to 
elucidate  emotional  experience.  If  man  must 
worship  beauty  only  as  he  has  known  it  in  the 
pasi,  man  must  l)e  satisfied  with  worshipping  that 
whici.  has  lived  and  now  is  dead. 

A.  S. 


MILKWEED 
I 

The  blue,  blue  sea, 

And  the  drone  of  waves. 

And  the  wheeling  swallows, 

And  the  sun  on  the  opal  sails. 

And  the  misty  and  salt-bleached  headlands. 

And  the  milkweed  thick  at  my  feet, 

And  the  milkweed  held  in  the  hand  of  a  child 

Who  dreams  on  the  misty  cliff-edge, 

Watching  the  fading  sails 

And  the  noonday  blue 

Of  the  lonely  sea! 

II 

Was  it  all  years  ago. 
Or  was  it  but  yesterday  ? 

21 


^  OPEN  WATER 

1  only  know  that  the  scent 

Of  the  milkweed  brings  it  back, 

Back  with  a  strangle  of  tears : 

The  child  and  the  misty  headlands, 

The  drone  of  the  dark  blue  sea. 

And  the  opal  sails 

In  the  sun! 


HOME  THOUGHTS 

I  AM  tired  of  the  dust 

And  the  fever  and  noise 

And  the  meaningless  faces  of  men; 

And  I  want  to  go  home! 

Oh,  day  after  day  I  get  thinking  of  home 

Where  the  black  tirs  fringe  the  skyline, 

And  the  birds  wheel  down  the  silence, 

And  the  hemlocks  whisper  peace, 

And  the  hill-winds  cool  the  blood, 

And  the  dusk  is  crowned  with  glory. 

And  the  lone  horizon  softens, 

And  the  world's  at  home  with  God ! 

Oh,  I  want  to  go  there ! 

/  want  to  go  home! 

23 


LIFE 

A  RIND  of  light  hangs  low 

On  the  rim  of  the  world ; 

A  sound  of  feet  disturbs 

The  quiet  of  the  cell 

Where  a  rope  and  a  beam  looms  high 

At  the  end  of  the  yard. 

But  in  the  dusk 

Of  that  walled  yard  waits  a  woman; 

And  as  the  thing  from  its  cell, 

Still  guarded  and  chained  and  bound, 

Crosses  that  little  space, 

Silent,  for  ten  brief  steps, 

A  woman  hangs  on  his  neck. 
24 


LIFE  25 

And  that  walk  from  a  cell  to  a  sleep 
Is  known  as  Life, 
And  those  ten  dark  steps 
Of  tangled  rapture  and  tears 
Men  stUl  call  Love. 


SOME  DAY,  O  SEEKER  OF  DREAMS 

Some  day,  O  Seeker  of  Dreams,  they  will  seek 

even  us ! 

Some  day  they  will  wake,  Fellow  Singer,  and 

hunger  and  want 
For  the  Ways  to  the  Lonelier  Height ! 
So  let  us,  Shy  Weaver  of  Beauty,  take  heart, 
For  out  of  their  dust  they  will  call  to  us  yet! 
Let  us  wait,  and  sing,  and  be  wise, 
As  the  sea  has  waited  and  sung, 
As  the  hills  through  the  night  have  been  wise ! 
For  w        the  Bringers  of  Light,  and  the  Voices 
t  ove, 

Aye,  we  are  the  Soothers  of  Pain,  the  Appeasers 
of  Death, 

26 


SOME  DAY^  O  SEEKER  OF  DREAMS  ^7 

The  Dusk  and  the  Star  and  the  Gleam  and  the 

Loneliest  Peak! 
And  when  they  have  found  and  seen,  and  know 

not  whither  they  trend, 
They  will  come  to  us,  crying  aloud  like  a  child 

in  the  night; 
And  when  they  have  learned  of  our  lips, 
Still  back  to  our  feet  they  will  grope 
For  that  ultimate  essence  and  core  of  all  song. 
To  usher  them  emoty  and  naked,  then,  out  to  the 

unanswering  stars, 
Where  Silence  and  Dreaming  and  Music  are  one ! 


BLACK  HOURS 

I  HAVE  drunk  deep 

Of  the  well  of  bitterness. 

Black  hours  have  harried  me, 

Blind  fate  has  bludgeoned  my  bent  head, 

And  on  my  brow  the  iron  crown 

Of  sorrow  ha--    en  crushed. 

And  being  mc       I  have  cried  aloud 

At  anguish  ineluctable. 

But  over  each  black  hour  has  hung 

Forlorn  this  star  of  knowledge : 

The  path  of  pain  too  great  to  be  endured 

Leads  always  unto  peace; 

And  when  the  granite  road  of  anguish  mounts 
28 


BLACK  HOURS 


Up  and  still  up  to  its  one  ultimate 
And  dizzy  height  of  torture, 
Softly  it  dips  and  meets 
The  valley  of  endless  rest! 


BEFORE  RENEWAL 

Summer  is  dead. 

And  love  is  gone. 

And  life  is  glad  of  this. 

For  sad  were  boili,  with  having  given  much; 

And  bowed  were  both,  with  great  desires  fulfilled ; 

And  both  were  grown  too  sadly  wise 

Evei  to  live  again. 

Too  aged  with  hours  o'er-passionate, 

Too  deeply  sung  by  throats 

That  took  no  thought  of  weariness, 

Moving  too  madly  toward  the  crest  of  things. 

Giving  too  freely  of  the  fountaining  sap. 

Crowding  too  gladly  into  grass  and  leaves, 


BEFORE  RENEWAL 

Breathing  too  blindly  into  flower  and  song! 

Again  the  lyric  hope  may  thrill  the  world. 

Again  the  sap  may  sweeten  into  leaves, 

Again  will  grey-eyed  April  come 

With  all  her  choiring  throats; 

But  not  to-day — 

For  the  course  is  run. 

And  the  cruse  is  full, 

And  the  loin  ungirt, 

And  the  hour  ordained! 

And  now  there  is  need  of  rest; 

And  need  of  renewal  there  is ; 

And  need  of  silence. 

And  need  of  sleep. 

Too  clear  the  light 

Now  lies  on  hill  and  valley; 


33  OPEN  WATER 

And  little  is  left  to  say. 
And  nothing  is  left  to  give. 
Summer  is  dead ; 
And  love  is  goncl 


HILL-TOP  HOURS 

I  AM  through  with  regret. 
No  more  shall  I  kennel  with  pain. 
I  have  called  to  this  whimpering  soul, 
This  soul  that  is  sodden  with  tears 
And  sour  with  the  reek  of  the  years! 
And  now  we  shall  glory  in  light ! 
Like  a  tatter  of  sail  in  the  wind, 
Like  a  tangle  of  net  on  the  sand, 
Like  a  hound  stretched  out  in  the  heat, 
My  soul  shall  lie  in  the  sun, 
And  be  drowsy  with  peace, 
And  not  think  of  the  past ! 


LETTERS  FROM  HOME 

Letters  from  Home,  you  said. 

Unopened  they  lay  on  the  shack-sill 

As  ymi  stared  with  me  at  the  prairie 

And  the  foothills  bathed  with  light. 

Letters  from  Home,  you  whispered, 

And  the  homeland  casements  shone 

Through  the  homeland  dusk  again, 

And  the  sound  of  the  birds  came  back, 

And  the  soft  green  sorrowing  hills, 

And  the  sigh  of  remembered  names, 

Ihe  wine  of  remembered  youth, — 

Oh,  these  came  back, 
34 


LETTERS  FROM  HOME 

Back  with  those  idle  words 
Of  '^Letters  from  Home"! 


35 


Over  such  desolate  leagues, 

Over  such  sundering  seas, 

Out  of  the  lost  dead  years, 

After  the  days  of  waiting, 

After  the  ache  had  died, 

After  the  brine  of  failure. 

After  the  outland  peace 

Of  the  trail  that  never  turns  back. 

Now  that  the  night-wind  whispers 

How  Home  shall  never  again  be  home, 

And  now  that  the  arms  of  the  Far-away 

Have  drawn  us  close  to  its  breast, 

Out  of  the  dead  that  is  proved  not  dead, 

To  waken  the  sorrow  that  should  have  died. 


OPEN  WATER 

To  tighten  the  tliroat  that  never  shall  sing, 
To  sadden  the  trails  that  we  still  must  ride, 
Too  late  they  come  to  us  i.-'re — 
Oar  Letters  from  Home! 


CHAINS 

I  WATCHED  the  men  at  work  on  the  stuhborn 
rock, 

But  mostly  the  one  man  poised  on  a  drill 
Above  the  steam  that  hissed  and  billowed  about 
him 

White  in  the  frosty  air, 

Where  the  lordly  house  would  stand. 

Majest.*-,  muscular,  high  like  a  god, 
He  stood. 

And  controlled  and  stopped 

And  started  his  thundering  drill, 

Offliand  and  careless  and  lordly  as  Thor, 

37 


3^  OPEN  WATER 

Begiimed  and  solemn  and  crowned  with  sweat. 
Where  the  great  steel  chains  swung  over  the 
buckets  of  rock. 

Then  out  of  a  nearby  house  came  a  youth, 
All  gloved  and  encased  in  fur  and  touched  with 
content, 

Thin-shouldered  and  frail  and  finished, 
Leading  a  house-dog  out  on  a  silver  chain. 
He  peered  at  the  figure  that  fought  with  the 
drill 

Above  the  billowing  steam  and  tumult  of  sound, 
Peered  up  for  a  moment  impassive, 
With  almost  pitying  eyes, 

And  then  went  pensively  down  the  Avenue's 
calm, 

In  the  clear  white  light  of  the  noonday  .<  m, 
Not  holding,  but  held  by  his  silvery  chain ! 


THE  DRU>',S 

A  VILLAGE  wrapped  in  slumber, 

Silent  between  the  hills, 

Empty  of  moon-lit  marketplace, 

Empty  of  moving  life — 

Such  is  my  quiet  heart. 

Shadowy-walled  it  rests. 

Sleeping  its  heavy  sleep; 

But  sudden  across  the  dark 

Tingles  a  sound  of  drums! 

The  drums,  the  drums,  the  distant  drums. 

The  throb  of  the  drums  strikes  up. 

The  beat  of  the  drums  awakes! 

Then  loud  through  the  little  streets. 


40  OPEN  WATER 

And  strange  to  the  startled  roofs, 

The  drums,  tlie  druius  approach  and  pound, 

And  throb  and  clamour  and  thrill  and  pass, 

And  between  the  echoing  house-walls 

All  swart  and  grim  they  go, 

The  battalions  of  regret, 

After  the  drums,  the  valiant  drums 

That  die  away  in  the  night ! 


ANAESTHESIA 

I  CAUGHT  the  smell  of  ether 
From  the  glass-roofed  room 
Where  the  hospital  stood. 
Suddenly  all  about  me 
I  felt  a  mist  of  anguish 
And  the  old,  old  hour  of  dread 
When  Death  had  shambled  by. 

Yellow  with  time  it  is, 
This  letter  on  which  1  look; 
But  up  from  it  comes  a  perfume 
That  stabs  me  still  to  the  heart; 

And  suddenly,  at  the  odour, 


OPEN  WATER 
Through  a  ghost-hkc  mist  I  know 
Rapture  and  love  and  wild  regret 
When  Life,  and  You,  went  by. 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT 
Mournful  the  summer  moon 
Rose  from  the  quiet  sea. 
Go!  len  and  sad  and  full  of  regret 
As  though  it  would  ask  of  eartl 
Where  all  her  lovers  had  vanished 
And  whither  had  gone  the  rose-red  Hps 
That  had  sighed  to  her  light  of  old. 
Then  I  caught  a  pulse  of  music. 
Brokenly,  out  at  the  pier-end, 
And  1  heard  the  voices  of  girls 
Going  home  in  the  dark, 
Laughing  along  the  sea-wall 
Over  a  lover's  word ! 

43 


SAPPHO'S  TOiMB 
I 

In  an  old  and  ashen  island, 
Beside  a  city  grey  with  death, 
They  are  seeking  Sappho's  tomb! 

II 

Beneath  a  vineyard  ruinous 

And  a  broken-columned  temple 

They  are  delving  where  she  sleeps! 

iliere  between  a  lonely  valley 

Filled  with  noonday  silences 

And  the  headlands  of  soft  violet 

Where  the  sapphire  seas  still  whisper, 
44 


Sappho's  tomb 

Whisper  with  her  sigh ; 
Through  a  country  sad  with  wonder 
Men  are  seeking  vanished  Sapi)ho, 
Men  are  searching  for  the  tomb 
Of  muted  Song! 

lil 

They  will  find  a  Something  there, 
In  a  cavern  where  no  sound  is, 
In  a  room  of  milky  marble 
Walled  with  black  amiAibolite 

Over-scored  with  faded  words 
And  stained  with  time! 

IV 

Sleeping  in  a  low-roofed  chamber. 
With  her  phials  of  perfume  round  her, 
In  a  terra-cotta  coffin 


46  OPEN  WATER 

With  Iicr  iiiia^a'  on  the  cnv  r, 
Childish  echo  of  her  beauty 
Etched  in  black  and  gold  barbaric — 
Lift  it  slowly,  slowly,  seekers, 
Or  your  search  will  end  in  dust ! 

V 

With  a  tiny  nude  Astarte, 

Bright  with  gilt  and  gravely  watching 

Over  grass-green  malachite, 

Over  rubies  pale,  and  topaz. 

And  the  crumbled  dust  of  pearls ! 

VI 

With  her  tarnished  silver  mirror, 
With  her  rings  of  beaten  gold, 
With  her  robes  of  faded  purple, 
And  the  st}  lus  that  so  often 


SAPPHO's  TOMB 

Traced  the  azure  or  her  eyelids, — 
Kyelids  delicate  and  weary, 
Drooping,  over-wise! 

And  at  her  head  will  \k  a  plectrori 
Made  of  ivory,  worn  with  time, 
And  a  flute  and  gilded  lyre 
Will  be  found  beside  her  feet. 

And  two  little  yellow  sandals, 

And  crude  serpents  chased  in  silver 

On  her  ankle  rings — 

And  a  cloud  of  drifting  dust 

All  her  shining  hair! 

VII 

In  that  lost  and  lonely  tomb 
They  may  find  her; 

Find  Ihe  arms  that  ached  with  rapture, 


48  OPEN  WATER 

Softly  folded  on  a  breast 
That  for  evermore  is  silent; 
Find  the  eyes  no  longer  wistful, 
Find  the  lips  no  longer  singing, 
And  the  heart,  so  hot  and  wayward 
When  that  ashen  land  was  young, 
Cold  through  all  the  mists  of  time, 
Cold  beneath  the  Lesbian  marble 
In  the  low-roofed  room 
That  drips  with  tears! 


THE  WILD  SWANS  PASS 
In  the  dead  of  the  night 
You  turned  in  your  troubled  sleep 
As  you  heard  the  wild  swans  pass ; 
And  then  you  slept  again. 

You  slept — 

While  a  new  world  swam  beneath 
That  army  of  eager  wings. 
While  plainland  and  slough  and  lake 
Lay  wide  to  those  outstretched  throats, 
While  the  far  lone  Lights  allured 
That  phalanx  of  passionate  breasts. 

And  I  who  had  loved  you  more 
Than  a  homing  bird  loves  flight, — 

49 


OPEN  WATER 

I  watched  with  an  ache  for  freedom, 
I  rose  with  a  need  for  life. 
Knowing  that  love  had  passed 
Into  its  unknown  North ! 


AT  NOTRE  DAME 
I 

O  ODOUR  of  incense,  pride  of  purple  and  gold, 
Burst  of  music  and  praise,  and  passion  of  flute 
and  pipe! 

O  voices  of  silver  o'er-sweet,  and  soothing  an- 
tiphonal  chant ! 

O  Harmony,  ancient,  ecstatic,  a-throb  to  the  echo- 
ing roof. 

With  tremulous  roll  of  awakened  reverberant 

tubes,  and  thunder  of  sound ! 
And  illusion  of  mystical  song  and  outclangour  of 

jubilant  bell. 


52  OPEN  WATER 

And  glimmer  of  gold  and  taper,  and  throbbing, 

insistent  pipe — 
If  song  and  emotion  and  music  were  all — 
Were  it  only  all ! 

II 

For  see,  dark  heart  of  mine. 

How  the  singers  bave  ceased  and  gone ! 
See,  how  all  of  the  music  is  lost  and  the  lights  are 
low, 

And  how,  as  our  idle  arms,  these  twin  ineloquent 
towers 

Grope  up  through  the  old  inaccessible  Night  to 
His  stars ! 

How  in  vain  we  have  stormed  on  the  bastions  of 
Silence  with  sound! 

How  in  vain  with  our  music  and  song  and  emo- 
tion assailed  the  Unknown, 


AT  NOTRE  DAME  S3 

How  beat  with  the  wings  of  our  worship  on 

Earth's  imprisoning  bars ! 
For  the  pinions  of  Music  have  wearied,  the  proud 

loud  tubes  have  tired, 
Yet  still  grim  and  taciturn  stand  His  immutable 

stars, 

And,  lost  in  the  gloom,  to  His  frontiers  old  I  turn 
Where  glimmer  those  sentinel  fires, 
Beyond  which,  Dark  Heart,  we  two 
Some  night  must  steal  us  forth. 
Quite  naked,  and  alone! 


THE  PILOT 

I  LOUNGE  on  the  deck  of  the  river-steamer, 
Homeward  bound  with  its  load, 
Churning  from  headland  to  headland, 
Through  moonlight  and  silence  and  dusk. 
And  the  decks  are  alive  with  laughter  and  music 

and  singing. 
And  I  see  the  forms  of  the  sleepers 
And  the  shadowy  lovers  that  lean  so  close  to  the 

rail, 

And  the  romping  children  behind. 
And  the  dancers  amidships. 
But  high  above  us  there  in  the  gloom, 
Where  the  merriment  breaks  like  a  wave  at  his 
feet, 

54 


DOORS 

Listen! 

Footsteps 
Are  they, 

That  falter  through  the  gloom, 

That  echo  through  the  lonely  chambers 

Of  our  house  of  life? 

Listen ! 

Did  a  door  close  ? 
Did  a  whisper  waken? 
Did  a  ghostly  something 
Sigh  across  the  dusk? 

From  the  mournful  silence 

Something,  something  went! 
56 


DOORS 

Far  down  some  shadowy  passage 
Faintly  closed  a  door — 
And  O  how  empty  lies 
Our  house  of  life! 


SPRING  FLOODS 

You  stood  alone 
In  the  dusky  window, 
Watching  the  racing  river. 
Touched  with  a  vague  unrest, 
And  if  tired  of  loving  too  much 
More  troubled  at  heart  to  find 
The-?*-  the  flame  of  love  could  wither 
And  the  wonder  of  love  could  pass, 
You  kneeled  at  the  window-ledge 
And  stared  through  tlie  black-topped  mapl 
Where  an  April  robin  fluted, — 
Stared  idly  out 

At  the  flood-time  sweep  of  the  river, 
58 


ijPUING  FLOODS 

Silver  and  paling  gold 

In  the  ghostly  April  twilight. 

Shadowy  there  in  the  dusk 
Vuii  watched  with  shadowy  eyes 
The  racing,  sad,  unreasoning 
Hurrying  torrent  of  silver 
Seeking  its  far-off  sea. 
Faintly  I  heard  you  sigh, 
And  faintly  I  heard  the  robin's  flute, 
And  faintly  from  rooms  remote 
Came  a  broken  mumuir  of  voices. 
And  life,  for  a  breath,  stood  bathed 
In  a  wonder  crowned  with  pain, 
And  immortal  the  moment  hung; 
And  I  know  that  the  thought  of  you 
There  at  the  shadowy  window, 


<io  O'FX  WATFk 

And  the  luatted  bi     .  of  the  mapi 
And  the  sunset  cali  of  a  bini. 
And  the       wide  reaches  >f  s  .vcr 
VVr  ,  uuse  in  ^     huunlcd  licart 
Till  the  end  of  ime' 


TFIE  TURN  OF  Ti,E  VEAR 

TjiE  pines  shake  and  the  winds  wake. 
And  '  he  '  ifk  waves  crowd  the  sky-hne ! 
The  birds  wheel  out  on  a  troubled  sky ; 
Thf  widening  road  runs  white  and  long, 
And  the  page  !.>  turned, 
And  the  world  is  tired! 

So  I  want  no  more  of  twilight  sloth, 
And  1  want  no  more  of  resting. 
And  of  all  the  earth  I  ask  no  more 
Than  the  green  sea.  the  great  sea. 
The  long  road,  the  white  road. 
And  a  change  of  life  to-d  ' 


IF  I  LOVE  YOU 

If  I  love  you,  woman  of  rose 
And  warmth  and  wondering  eyes, 
If  it  so  fall  out 

That  you  are  the  woman  1  choose, 

Oh,  what  is  there  left  to  say, 

And  what  should  it  matter  to  me, 

Or  what  can  it  mean  to  you  ? 

For  under  the  two  white  breasts 

And  the  womb  that  makes  you  woman 

The  call  of  the  ages  whispers 

And  the  countless  ghosts  awaken, 

And  stronger  than  sighs  and  weeping 
62 


IF  1  LOVE  YOU  63 

The  urge  that  makes  us  one, 

And  older  than  bate  or  loving  or  shame 

This  want  that  builds  the  world ! 


WHAT  SHALL  I  CARE? 


What  shall  I  care  for  the  ways 
Of  these  idle  and  thin-flanked  women  in  silk 
And  the  lisping  men-shadows  that  trail  at  their 
heels  ? 

What  are  they  worth  in  my  world 

Or  the  world  that  I  want, 

These  flabby-armed,  indolent,  delicate  women 

And  these  halt-w^nnen  daring  '..>  call  themselves 
men 

Yet  afraid  to  get  down  to  the  earth 

And  afraid  of  the  wind, 

Afraid  of  the  truth, 

And  so  sadlv  afraid  "t  themselves? 
64 


I 


WHAT  SHALL  I  CARE?  65 

How  can  they  help  me  in  trouble  and  death? 
How  can  they  ke;p  nie  from  hating  my  kind? 
Oh,  I  want  to  get  out  of  their  coffining  rooms, 
I  want  to  walk  free  with  a  man, 
A  man  who  has  lived  and  dared 
And  swung  through  the  cycle  of  life! 
God  give  me  a  man  for  a  friend 
To  the  End, 

Give  me  a  man  with  his  heel  on  the  neck  of 

Hate, 

With  his  fist  in  the  face  of  Death, 

A  man  not  fretted  with  womanish  things, 

Unafraid  of  the  light, 

Of  the  worm  in  the  lip  of  a  corpse. 

Unafraid  of  the  call  from  the  cell  of  his  heart, — 

God  give  me  a  man  for  friend ! 


HUNTER  AND  HUNTED 
I 

When  the  sun  is  high, 
And  the  hills  are  happy  with  light. 
Then  virile  and  strong  I  am ! 
Then  ruddy  with  life  I  fare. 
The  fighter  who  feels  no  dread, 
The  roamer  who  knows  no  bounds. 
The  hunter  who  makes  the  world  his 
And  shouting  and  swept  with  pride. 
Still  mounts  to  the  lonelier  height! 

II 

In  the  cool  of  the  day. 

When  the  huddling  shadows  swarm, 
66 


HUNTER  AND  HUNTED 

And  the  ominous  eyes  look  out 

And  night  slinks  over  the  swales 

And  the  silence  is  chill  with  death. 

Then  I  am  the  croucher  beside  the  coals, 

The  lurker  within  the  shadowy  cave, 

Who  listens  and  mutters  a  charm 

And  trembles  and  waits, 

A  hunted  thing  grown 

Afraid  of  the  hunt, 

A  silence  enisled  in  silence, 

A  wonder  enwrapped  in  awe! 


APPLE  BLOSSOMS 

I  SAW  a  woman  stand 

Under  the  seas  of  bloom, 

Under  the  waves  of  colour  and  light. 

The  showery  snow  and  rose  of  the  odorous 

That  made  a  glory  of  earth. 

She  stood  where  the  petals  fell, 

And  her  hands  were  on  her  breast, 

And  her  lips  were  touched  with  wonder, 

And  her  eyes  were  full  of  pain — 

For  pure  she  was,  and  young, 

And  it  was  Spring! 


68 


THE  HOUSE  OF  UFE 

Quietly  I  closed  the  door. 

Then  I  said  to  my  soul : 

"I  shall  never  come  back, 

Back  to  this  haunted  room 

Where  Sorrow  and  I  have  slept." 

I  turned  from  that  hated  door 

And  passed  through  the  House  of  Life, 

Through  its  ghostly  rooms  and  glad 

And  its  corridors  dim  with  age. 

Then  lightly  I  crossed  a  threshold 

Where  the  casements  showed  the  sun 

And  I  entered  an  unknown  room, — 

And  my  heart  went  coUi, 

For  about  me  stood  that  Chamber  of  Pain 

I  had  thought  to  see  no  more ! 

69 


ULTIMATA 

I  Alif  desolate, 

Desolate  because  of  a  woman. 

When  at  midnight  walking  alone 

I  look  up  at  the  slow  wheeling  stars, 

I  see  only  the  eyes  of  this  woman. 

In  bird-haunted  valleys  and  by-ways  secluded. 

Where  once  I  sought  peace, 

I  find  now  only  unrest 

And  this  one  unaltering  want. 

When  the  dawn-wind  stirs  in  the  pine-tops 

I  hear  only  her  voice's  whisper. 

When  by  day  I  gaze  into  the  azure  above  me 

I  see  only  the  face  of  this  woman. 

In  the  sunlight  I  cannot  find  comfort, 
70 


ULTIMATA  71 

Nor  can  I  find  peace  in  the  shadows. 
Neither  can  I  take  joy  in  the  hill-wind, 

Nor  find  solace  on  kindlier  breasts; 
For  deep  in  the  eyes  of  all  women  I  watch 
I  see  only  her  eyes  stare  back. 
Nor  can  I  shut  the  thought  of  her  out  of  my 
heart 

And  the  ache  for  her  out  of  my  hours. 

Ruthlessly  now  she  invades  even  my  dreams 

And  wounds  me  in  sleep; 

And  my  body  cries  out  for  her, 

Early  and  late  and  forever  cries  out  for  her, 

And  her  alone, — 

And  I  want  this  woman! 

I  am  sick  at  heart  because  of  this  woman; 
I  am  lost  '    shame  because  of  my  want; 


I  I 


/-  OPEN  WATER 

And  mine  own  people  liavc  come  to  mean  naught 
to  me; 

And  with  many  about  me  still  am  I  utterly  alone, 

And  quite  solitary  now  I  take  my  way 

Where  men  are  intent  on  puny  things 

And  phantasmal  legions  pace! 

And  a  wearisome  thing  is  life, 

And  forever  the  shad  ovv  of  this  one  woman 

Is  falling  across  my  path. 

The  turn  in  the  road  is  a  pn  niise  of  her. 

The  twilight  is  thronged  with  her  ghosts; 

The  grasses  speak  only  of  her, 

The  leaves  whisper  her  name  forever; 

The  odorous  fields  are  full  of  her. 

ller  lips,  I  keep  telling  myself, 

Are  a  cup  from  which  I  must  drink; 


ULTIMATA  73 

iLcr  breast  is  the  one  last  pillow 

Whereon  I  may  ever  find  peace! 

Yet  she  has  not  come  to  nie, 

And  being  denied  her,  everything  stands  denied, 

And  all  men  who  have  waited  in  vain  for  love 

Cry  out  through  my  desolate  heart; 

And  the  want  of  the  hungering  world 

Runs  like  fire  through  my  veins 

And  bursts  from  my  throat  in  the  cry 

That  I  want  this  woman! 

I  am  possessed  of  a  great  sickness 
And  likewise  possessed  of  a  great  strength, 
And  the  ultimate  hour  has  come. 
I  will  arise  and  go  unto  this  woman, 
And  with  bent  head  and  my  arms  about  her 
'aiees 


74  OPEN  WATER 

I  shall  say  unto  her:    "Beloved  beyond  all 
words, 

Others  have  sought  your  side, 

And  many  iiave  craved  your  kiss. 

But  none,  O  body  of  flesh  and  bone, 

Has  known  a  hunn^er  like  mine! 

And  though  evil  befall,  or  good. 

This  hunger  is  given  to  me, 

And  is  now  made  known  to  you,— 

For  I  mui.t  die. 

Or  you  must  die, 

Or  Desire  must  clie 

This  night!" 


JllE  LIFE  ON  THE  TABLE 

In  the  white- walled  room 

Where  the  white  bed  waits 

Stand  banks  of  meaningless  flowers; 

In  the  rain-swept  street 

Are  a  ghost-like  row  of  cabs; 

And  along  the  corridor-dusk 

Phantasmal  feet  repass. 

Through  the  warm,  still  air 

The  odour  of  ether  hangs ; 

And  on  this  slenderest  thread 

Of  one  thin  pulse 

Hangs  and  swings 

The  hope  of  life — 

The  life  of  her 

I  love! 

75 


YOU  BID  ME  TO  SLEEP 
You  bid  me  to  sleep, — 
But  why,  O  Daughter  of  Beauty, 
Was  beauty  thus  horn  in  tlie  world? 
Since  out  of  these  shadowy  eyes 
The  wonder  shall  pass! 
And  out  of  this  surging  and  passionate  breast 
The  dream  shall  depart! 
And  out  of  these  dclicilo  rivers  of  warmth 
The  iire  shall  wither  and  fail! 
And  youth  like  a  bird  from  your  body  shall  fly 
And  Time  like  a  fang  on  your  llesh  shall  feed 
And  this  perilous  bosom  that  pulses  with  love 
Shall  go  down  to  the  dust  from  which  it  arose,— 

^'el  Daughter  of  Heautv,  close, 
76 


YOU  Bin  Mli  lO  bLEEI- 

Close  to  its  sumptuous  waniith 
You  hold  my  sorrowing  Iiead, 
And  smile  with  shadowy  eyes. 
And  bid  me  to  sleep  again! 


THE  LAST  OF  SUMMER 
The  opal  afternoon 
Is  cool,  and  very  still. 
A  wash  of  tawny  air. 
Sea-green  that  melts  to  gold, 
Bathes  all  the  skyline,  hill  by  hill. 
Out  of  the  black-topped  pinelands 
A  black  crow  calls, 
And  the  year  seems  old ! 
A  woman  from  a  doorway  ings. 
And  iinin  the  valley-slope  a  sheep-dog  barks, 
And  through  the  umber  woods  the  echo  faHs. 

Then  silence  on  the  still  world  litb 
78 


THE  LAST  OF  SUMMER  79 

And  faint  and  far  the  birds  fly  south. 
And  behind  the  dark  pines  drops  the  sun, 
And  a  small  wind  wakes  and  sighs, 
And  Summer,  see,  is  done! 


AT  CHARING-CROSS 

Alone  amid  the  Rockies  I  have  stood; 

Alone  across  the  prairie's  midnight  calm 

Full  often  I  have  fared 

And  faced  the  hushed  infinity  of  night; 

Alone  I  have  hung  poised 

Between  a  quietly  heaving  sea 

And  quieter  sky, 

Aching  with  isolation  absolute; 

And  in  Death's  Valley  I  have  walked  alone 

And  sought  in  vain  for  some  appeasing  sign 

Of  life  or  movement, 

While  over-desolate  niy  heart  called  out 

For  some  befriending  face 

Or  some  assuaging  voice! 
80 


AT  CHARING-CROSS  8l 

But  never  on  my  soul  has  weighed 

Such  loneliness  as  this, 
As  here  amid  the  seething  London  tides 
I  look  u])on  these  ghosts  that  conic  and  go, 
These  swarming  restless  souls  innumerable, 
Who  through  their  million-footed  dirge  of  un- 
concern 

Must  know  and  nurse  the  thought  of  kindred 

ghosts 
As  lonely  as  themselves. 
Or  else  go  mad  with  it ! 


PRESCIENCE 
I 

"The  sting  of  it  all,"  you  said,  as  you  stooped 

low  over  your  roses, 
"The  worst  of  it  is,  when  I  think  of  Death. 
That  Spring  by  Spring  the  Earth  shall  still  be 

beautiful, 

And  Summer  by  Summer  be  lovely  again, 
— And  I  shall  be  gone!" 

II 

"I  would  not  care,  perhaps,"  you  said,  watching 
your  roses, 

"If  only  'twere  dust  and  ruin  and  emptiness  left 
behind ! 

82 


PRESCIENCE  83 

But  the  thought  that  Earth  and  April 
Year  by  casual  year 

Shall  waken  around  the  old  ways,  soft  and  beau- 
tiful, 

Year  by  year  when  I  am  away, 
— This,  this  breaks  my  heart!" 


THE  STEEL  WORKERS 

I  WATCHED  the  workers  in  steel, 

The  l*it-like  gk)w  of  the  furnace. 

The  rivers  of  molten  metal, 

The  tremulous  rumble  of  cranes, 

Ihe  throb  of  the  Thor-like  hammers 

On  sullen  and  resonant  anvils! 

I  saw  the  haif-clad  workers 

Twisting  earth's  iron  to  their  use, 

Shaping  the  steel  to  their  thoughts; 

And,  in  some  way,  out  of  the  fury 

And  the  fires  of  mortal  passion, 

It  seemed  to  me, 
84 


THE  CHILDREN 

The  city  ts  old  in  sin, 

And  children  are  not  for  cities, 

And,  wan-eyed  woman,  you  want  them  not, 

^'ou  say  with  a  broken  laugh. 

Yet  out  of  each  wayward  softness  of  voice. 
And  each  fulness  of  breast, 
And  each  flute-throated  echo  of  song, 
Each  flutter  of  lace  and  quest  of  beautiful  things. 
Each  coil  of  entangling  hair  built  into  its  crown. 
Each  whisper  and  touch  in  the  silence  of  night, 
Each  red  unreasoning  mouth  that  is  lifted  to 
mouth, 

86 


THE  CHILDREN  87 

Each  whiteness  of  brow  that  is  furrowed  no  more 

with  thought, 
Each  careless  soft  curve  of  hps  that  can  never 

explain, 

Arises  the  old  and  the  inappeasable  cry ! 
Every  girl  who  leans  from  a  tenement  sill 
And  flutters  a  hand  to  a  youth, 
Every  woman  who  waits  for  a  man  in  the  dusk, 
Every  harlotous  arm  flung  up  to  a  drunken  heel 
That  would  trample  truth  down  in  the  dust, 
Reaches  unknowingly  out  for  its  own, 
And  blind  to  its  heritage  waits 
For  its  child! 


( 


1/ 


31 


THE  NOCTURNE 
Remote,  in  some  dim  room, 
On  this  dark  April  morning  soft  with  rain, 
I  hear  her  pensive  touch 
Fall  aimless  on  the  keys. 
And  stop,  and  play  again. 

And  as  the  music  wakens 

And  the  shadowy  house  is  still, 

How  all  my  troubled  soul  cries  out 

For  things  I  know  not  of ! 

Ah,  keen  the  quick  chords  fall, 

And  weighted  with  regret, 

Fade  through  the  quiet  rooms ; 
88 


THE  NOCTURNE 

And  warm  as  April  rain 
The  strange  tears  fall, 
And  life  in  some  way  seems 
Too  deep  to  bear! 


THE  WILD  GEESE 

Over  my  home-sick  head, 

High  in  the  paling  light 

And  touched  with  the  sunset's  glow, 

Soaring  and  strong  and  free, 

The  unswerving  phalanx  sweeps, 

The  honking  wild  geese  go, — 

Go  with  a  flurry  of  wings 

Home  to  their  norland  lakes 

And  the  sedge-fringed  tarns  of  peace 

And  the  pinelands  soft  with  Spring! 

I  cannot  go  as  the  geese  go, 

But  into  the  steadfast  North, 
90 


THE  WILD  GEESE 

The  North  that  is  dark  and  tender, 
My  home-sick  spirit  wings, — 
Wings  with  a  flurry  of  longing  thoughts 
And  nests  in  the  tarns  of  youth. 


THE  DAY 
I 

Dewy,  dewy  lawn-slopes, 

Is  this  the  day  she  comes  ? 

O  wild-flower  face  of  Morning, 

Must  you  never  wake? 

Silvery,  silvery  sea-line, 

Does  she  come  to-day? 

O  murmurous,  murmurous  birch-leaves, 

Beneath  your  whispering  shadow 

She  will  surely  pass; 

And  thrush  beneath  the  black-thorn 

And  white-throat  in  the  pine-top, 
92 


THE  DAV 

Sing  as  you  have  never  sung, 

For  she  will  surely  come! 


93 


n 

The  lone  green  of  the  lawn-slope, 

The  grey  light  on  the  sky-line. 
The  mournful  stir  of  birch-leaves, 
The  thin  note  of  the  brown  thrush. 
And  the  call  of  troubled  white-throats 
Across  the  afternoon! — 
Ah,  Summer  now  is  over. 
And  for  us  the  season  closed, 
For  she  who  came  an  hour  ago 
Has  gone  again — 
Has  gone! 


THE  REVOLT 

God  knows  that  I've  tinkled  and  jingled  and 

.  ummed, 

That  I've  piped  it  and  jigged  it  until  I'm  fair 

sick  of  the  game, 
That  I've  given  tht     ilag  and  wasted  the  silver 

of  song, 

That  I've  thrown  them  the  tailings  and  they've 

taken  them  up  content! 
But  now  I  want  to  slough  off  the  bitterr     "  >  ^ 

of  it  all, 

I  want  to  throw  off  the  shackles  and  chains  of 
time, 

I  want  to  sit  down  with  my  soul  and  talk  straight 
out, 


THE  REVOLT  95 

I  want  to  make  peace  with  myself, 
And  say  what  I  have  to  say, 
While  still  there  is  time! 

Yea,  I  will  arise  and  go  forth,  I  have  said. 
To  the  uplands  of  truth,  to  be  free  as  the  wind. 
Rough  and  unruly  and  open  and  turbulent- 
throated  ! 

Yea,  I  win  go  'orth  and  fling  from  my  soul 
The  shackles  and  chains  of  song! 

But,  lo,  on  my  wrists  are  the  scars, 
And  here  on  my  ankles  the  chain-galls. 
And  the  cell-pallor,  see,  on  my  face! 
And  my  throat  seems  thick  with  the  cell-dust, 
And  for  guidance  I  grope  to  the  walls. 
And  after  my  moment  of  light 


96  OPEN  WATER 

I  want  to  go  back  to  the  Dark, 
Since  the  Open  still  makes  me  afraid. 
And  silence  seems  best  in  the  sun, 
And  sung  in  the  dusk! 


ATAVISM 

I  FEEL  all  primal  and  savage  to-day. 
I  could  eat  and  drink  deep  and  love  strong 
I  could  fight  and  exult  and  boast  and  be  glad! 
I  could  tear  out  the  life  of  a  wild  thing  and  laugh 
at  it! 

I  could  crush  into  panting  submission  the  breast 
of  a  woman 

A-stray  from  her  tribe  and  her  smoke-stain'  i 

tent-door ! 
I  could  glory  in  folly  and  fire  and  ruin, 

And  race  naked-limbed  with  the  wind, 
And  slink  on  the  heels  of  my  foes 

97 


98  OPEN  WAT^ 

And  dabble  their  blood  on  my  brows-— 
For  to-day  I  am  sick  of  it  all, 
This  silent  and  orderly  empty  life. 

And  I  feel  all  savage  again! 


MARCH  TWILIGHT 
Black  with  a  letter  of  mud 
Stippled  with  silvery  pooL 
Stands  the  pavement  at  the  street-end ; 
And  the  gutter  snow  is  gone 
From  cobble  and  runnelling  curb ; 
And  no  longer  the  ramping  wind 
Is  rattling  the  rusty  signs; 
And  moted  and  soft  and  misty 
Hangs  the     nlight  over  the  cross-streets, 
And  ilie  home-bound  crowds  of  the  city 
Walk  i>i  a  flood  of  gold. 


And  suddenly  out  of  the  dusk 
There  comes  the  ancient  question : 


99 


OPEN  WATER 

Can  it  be  that  I  have  lived 
In  earlier  worlds  unknown  ? 
Or  is  it  that  somewhere  deep 
In  this  husk  that  men  call  Me 
Are  kennelled  a  motley  kin 
I  never  shall  know  or  name, — 
Are  housed  still  querulous  ghosts 
That  sigh  and  awaken  and  move, 
And  sleep  once  more? 


THE  ECHO 
I 

I  AM  only  a  note  in  the  chorus, 

A  leaf  in  the  fluttering  June, 

A  wave  on  the  deep. 

These  things  that  I  struggle  to  utter 

Have  all  been  uttered  before. 

In  many  another  heart 

The  selfsame  song  was  bom, 

The  ancient  ache  endured, 

The  timeless  wonder  faced. 

The  unanswered  question  nursed, 

The  resurgent  hunger  felt, 

And  the  eternal  failure  known ! 

101 


OPEN  WATER 


II 

But  glad  is  the  lip  of  its  whisper; 

The  wave,  of  its  life ; 

The  leaf,  of  its  lisp; 

And  glad  for  its  hour  is  my  soul 

For  its  echo  of  godlier  music. 

Its  fragment  of  song! 


AUTUMN 

The  thin  gold  of  the  sun  lies  slanting  on  the  hill ; 

In  the  sorrowful  greys  and  muffled  violets  of  the 
old  orchard 

A  group  of  girls  are  quietly  gathering  apples. 
Through  the  mingled  gloom  and  green  they 

scarcely  speak  at  all. 
And  their  broken  voices  rise  and  fall  unutterably 

sad. 

There  are  no  birds, 

And  the  goldenrod  is  gone. 

And  a  child  calls  out,  far  away,  across  the  au- 
tumn twilight; 

And  the  sad  grey  of  the  dusk  grows  slowly 
deeper. 

And  all  the  world  seems  old! 

103 


FACES 

I  TIRE  of  these  empty  masks, 

These  faces  of  city  women 

That  seem  so  vapid  and  well-controlled. 

I  get  tired  of  their  guarded  ways 

And  their  eyes  that  are  always  empty 

Of  either  passion  or  hate 

Or  promise  or  love, 

And  that  seem  to  be  old 

And  are  never  young ! 

I  think  of  the  homelier  faces 

That  I  have  seen, 

The  vital  and  open  faces 

In  the  by-ways  of  the  world: 

A  Polish  girl  who  met 
104 


 .   -  


FACES  105 

Hev  lover  one  wintry  morning 
Outside  the  giiol  at  Ossining; 
A  lean  yorng  Slav  violinist 
And  the  steerage  women  about  him, 
Held  by  the  sound  of  i.  s  music; 
A  young  and  deep-bosomed  Teuton 
Suckling  her  shawl-wrapped  child 
On  a  grey  stone  bridge  in  Detmold ; 
A  group  of  girls  from  Ireland, 
Crowding  ihe  Gceps  of  a  colonist-car 
And  singing  half -sadly  together 
As  their  train  rocked  on  and  on 
Over  the  sun-bathed  prairie ; 
A  mournful  C^labrian  mother 
Standing  and  staring  out 
Past  the  mists  of  Ischia 
After  a  fading  steamer; 


I  If 


■i 


OPEN  WATER 

A  Nautch  girl  held  by  a  sailor 
Who'd  taken  a  knife  from  her  fingers 
But  not  the  fire  from  her  eyes; 
And  a  silent  Sicilian  mother 
Standing  alone  in  the  Marina 
Awaiting  her  boy  who  had  been 
Long  years  away ! — 
These  I  remember! 
And  of  these 
I  never  tire ! 


THERE  IS  STRENGTH  IN  THE  SOIL 

There  is  strength  in  the  soil ; 
In  the  earth  there  is  laughter  and  youth. 
There  is  solace  and  hope  in  the  up  di  aed  loam. 
And  lo,  I  shall  plant  my  soul  in  it  here  like  a 

seed! 

And  forth  it  shall  come  to  me  as  a  flower  of 
song; 

For  I  know  it  is  good  to  get  back  to  the  earth 

That  is  orderly,  placid,  all-patient! 

It  io  good  to  know  how  quiet 

And  noncommittal  it  breathes. 

This  ample  and  opulent  bosom 

That  must  some  day  nurse  us  all ! 

107 


LIFE-DRUNK 

On  opal  Aprilian  mornings  like  this 

I  seem  dizzy  and  drunk  with  life. 

I  waken  and  wander  and  laugh  in  the  sun; 

With  some  mystical  knowledge  enormous 
I  lift  up  my  face  to  the  light. 
Drunk  with  a  gladness  stupendous  I  seem; 
With  some  wine  of  Immensity  god-like  I  reel : 
And  my  arm  could  fling  Time  from  His  throne; 
I  could  pelt  the  awed  taciturn  arch 
Of  Morning  with  music  and  mirth ; 
And  I  feel,  should  I  find  but  a  voice  for  my 
thought. 

That  the  infinite  orbits  of  all  God's  loneliest  stars 
io8 


MY  HEART  STOOD  EMPTY 
My  heart  stood  empty  and  bare, 
So  I  hung  it  with  thoughts  of  a  woman. 
The  remembered  ways  of  this  woman 
Hung  sweet  in  my  heart. 
So  I  followed  where  thought  should  lead, 
And  it  led  to  her  feet. 
But  the  mouth  of  this  woman  was  pain, 
And  the  love  of  this  woman,  regret; 
And  now  only  the  tliought 
Of  all  those  remembered  thoughts 
Of  remembered  ways, 
Is  shut  in  my  heart ! 


no 


ONE  NIGHT  IN  THE  NORTHWEST 

When  they  flagged  our  train  because  of  a  broken 
rail, 

I  stepped  down  out  of  the  crowded  car. 
With  its  clamour  and  dust  and  heat  and  babel  of 
broken  talk. 

I  stepped  out  into  the  cool,  the  velvet  cool,  of 
the  night, 

And  felt  the  balm  of  the  prairie-wind  on  my  face. 
And  somewhere  I  heard  the  running  of  water, 
I  felt  the  breathing  of  grass. 
And  I  knew,  as  I  saw  the  great  white  stars, 
That  the  world  was  made  for  good  I 


III 


DREAMERS 

There's  a  poet  tombed  in  you, 
Man  of  blood  and  iron! 
There's  a  dreamer  dead  and  buried 
Deep  beneath  your  cynic  frown, 
Deep  beneath  your  toil ! 

And  deep  beneath  my  music, 
There's  a  stronp^  man  stirs  in  me ; 
There's  a  ghost  of  blood  a\id  granite 
Coffined  in  this  madness 

Carpentered  of  Song! 

You  live  your  day  and  drain  it , 
I  weave  my  dream  and  lose  it . 

112 


i«eami:rs  113 
But  the  red  blood  lost  in  me  awakens  still  at 

times, 

At  all  your  city's  sky-line, 

At  all  your  roaring  market-place, 

At  all  its  hum  of  power — 

And  the  poet  dead  within  you  stirs 

Still  at  the  plaintive  note  or  two 

Of  a  dreamer's  plaintive  song! 


THE  QUESTION 
I 

Glad  with  the  wine  of  h'fe, 

Reeh'ng  I  go  my  way, 

Drunk  with  the  ache  of  Hving 

And  mouthing  my  drunken  song! 

Then  comes  the  lucid  moment 

And  the  shadow  across  the  lintel; 

And  I  hear  the  ghostly  whisper, 

And  I  glimpse  with  startled  eyes 

The  Door  beyond  the  doorway, 

And  I  see  the  small  dark  house 

Where  I  must  sleep. 
"4 


THE  QUESTION 
II 

Then  song  turns  sour  on  my  lips, 
And  the  warmth  goes  out  of  my  blood, 
And  I  turn  me  back  to  the  beaker. 
And  re-draining  my  cup  of  dream, 
I  drown  the  whispering  voices, 
I  banish  the  ghostly  question 
As  to  which  in  the  end  is  true ; 
The  wine  and  the  open  road? 
Or  the  waiting  Door? 


THE  GIFT  OF  HATE 
Kmpty  It  seems,  at  times,  their  cry  about  Love. 
Their  claim  that  love  is  the  only  thing  that  sur- 
vives. 

For  I  who  am  bom  of  my  centuries  strewn  with 
hate. 

Who  was  spewed  into  life  from  a  timeless  tangle 
of  sin, 

I  can  hate  as  strong  and  as  long  as  I  love! 

There  are  hours  and  issues  I  hate; 
There  are  creeds  and  deeds  and  doubts  I  hate; 
There  are  men  I  hate  to  the  uttermost; 
And  -iltnough  in  their  graves  they  listen  and 
weep, 

ii6 


THE  GIFT  OF  HATE  "7 

Earth's  mothers  and  wistful  women  who  cried 
for  peace, 

I  hate  this  King  of  Evil  who  has  crowned  my 
heart  with  Hate! 


THE  DREAM 

I  LAY  by  your  side  last  night. 

By  you,  in  my  dreams, 

I  felt  the  damp  of  the  grave. 

I  was  dead  with  you — 

And  my  bones  still  ache  with  Death. 

For  my  hand  went  out  and  I  touched 

And  I  found  them  fallen  away. 

Wasted  and  lost! 

Those  lips  once  warm  with  life 

Were  eaten  and  gone! 

And  my  soul  screamed  out  in  the  dark 

At  the  intimate  blackness  of  Death. 

And  then  I  arose  from  the  dead 
ii8 


THE  DREAM  HQ 

And  returned  to  the  day; 

And  my  bones  and  my  heart  still  ache  with  it  all. 

And  I  hunger  to  hear  the  relieving  babble  of  life, 

The  crowd  in  the  hurryinp-  street, 

The  tumult  and  laughter  and  talk, 

To  make  me  forget! 


ONE  ROOM  IN  MY  HEART 
One  room  in  my  lieart  sliall  be  closed,  I  said; 
One  chamber  at  least  in  my  soul  shall  be  secret 

and  locked! 

I  shall  hold  it  my  holy  of  holies,  and  no  one  shall 
know  it! 

But  you.  calm  woman  predestined,  with  casual 
hands, 

You  came  with  this  trivial  key, 

And  ward  by  obdurate  ward  the  surrendering 

lock  fell  back. 
And  disdainfully  now  yoi      nder      :  brood  ami 

wait 

In  this  room  that  I  thought  was  my  own! 


120 


THE  MEANING 

It  isn't  the  Sea  that  I  love, 
But  the  ships 

That  must  dare  and  endure  and  defy  and  sur- 
vive it! 

It  isn't  the  flesh  that  1  love, 
But  the  spirit 

That  guides  and  derides  and  controls  and  out- 
lives it! 

It  isn't  this  earth  that  I  love. 
But  the  mortals 

Who  give  to  it  meaning  and  colour  and  passion 
and  life! 

For  what  is  the  Sea  without  ships  ? 
And  what  is  the  flesh  without  soul? 
And  what  is  a  world  without  love? 

121 


THE  VEIL 

You  have  said  that  I  sold 
My  life  for  a  song; 
Laid  bare  my  heart 
That  men  might  listen 
And  go  their  ways — 
My  inchoate  heart 
That  I  dare  not  plumb. 
That  goes  unbridled 
To  the  depths  of  Hell, 
That  sings  in  the  sun 
To  the  brink  of  rieaven! 
I  have  tossed  you  the  spindrift 
Born  of  its  fretting 


THE  VEIL 

On  its  shallowest  coast, 
But  over  the  depths  of  it 
Bastioned  in  wonder 
And  silent  with  fear 
God  sits  with  me  I 


TflE  MAN  OF  DREAMS 
All  my  lean  life 

I  garnered  nothing  but  a  dream  or  two. 

These  others  gathered  harvests 

And  grew  fat  with  grain. 

But  no  man  h'ves  by  bread. 

And  bread  alone. 

So,  forgetful  of  their  scorn, 

When  starved,  they  cried  for  hu-, 

f  gave  ilu  ni  my  last  dreams, 

I  bared  for  them  my  heart, 

That  they  might  eat ! 


124 


APRIL  ON  THE  RIALTO 

A  CANYON  of  granite  and  steel, 

A  river  of  grim  unrest, 

And  over  the  fever  and  street-dust 

Arches  the  azure  of  dream. 

And  frettii^g  along  the  tumult, 

Threading  the  iron  curbs, 

Tawdry  in  tinsel  and  feather 

Drift  the  daughters  of  pleasure. 

The  sad-eyed  traders  in  song, 

The  makers  of  joy, 

The  Columbines  of  the  city 

Seeking  their  ends! 

But  under  the  beaded  eye-lash. 


OPEN  WATER 

Under  the  lip  with  its  rouge, 
Under  the  mask  of  white 
Splashed  with  geranium-red, 
As  God's  own  arcli  of  azure 
Leans  softly  over  the  street, 
Surely,  this  day,  runs  warmer 
The  blood  through  a  wasted  breast ! 


THE  SURRENDER 

Must  I  round  my  life  to  a  song, 

As  the  waves  wear  smooth  the  shore-stone  ? 

Shall  the  mortal  beat  and  throb 

Of  this  heart  of  mine 

Be  only  to  crumble  a  dream, 

And  fashion  the  pebbles  of  fancy, 

That  the  tides  of  time  may  cover. 

Or  a  child  may  find? 

I  ttle  in  truth  it  matters; 
But  this  at  the  most  I  know: 

Infinite  is  the  ocean 
That  thunders  upon  man's  soul, 
And  the  sooner  the  soul  falls  broken. 
The  smoother  will  be  its  song! 

137 


THE  PASSING 
Ere  the  thread  is  loosed, 
And  the  sands  run  low, 
And  the  last  hope  fails, 
Wherever  we  fare, 
O  Fond  and  True, 
May  it  fall  that  we  come  in  the  end, 
Come  back  to  the  crimson  valleys, 
Back  to  the  Indian  Summer, 
Back  to  the  northern  pine-lands, 
And  the  grey  lakes  draped  with  silence. 
And  the  sunlight  thin  and  poignant, 
And  the  leaf  that  flutters  earthward, 
^^d  the  skyline  green  and  lonely, 


THE  PASSING  129 

And  the  ramparts  of  the  dead  world 
Ruddy  with  wintry  rose! 
May  we  fare,  O  Fond  and  True, 
Through  our  soft-houred  Indian  Summer, 
Through  the  paling  twilight  weather. 
And  facing  the  lone  green  uplands, 

And  greeting  the  sun-warmed  hills, 

Step  mto  the  pineland  shadows 

And  enter  the  sunset  valley 

And  go  as  the  glory  goes 

Out  of  the  dreaming  autumn, 

Out  of  the  drifting  leaf 

And  the  dying  light  I 


PROTESTATIONS 
If  I  tire  of  you,  beautiful  woman, 
I  know  that  the  fault  is  mine ; 
Yet  not  all  mine  the  failure 
And  not  all  mine  the  loss! 
In  loveliness  still  you  walk; 
But  I  have  walked  with  sorrow! 
I  have  threaded  narrows, 
And  I  have  passed  through  perils 
That  you  know  nothing  of! 
And  I  in  my  grief  have  gazed 
In  eyes  that  were  not  yours ; 
And  my  emptier  hours  have  known 
The  sigh  of  kindlier  bosoms. 

130 


PROTESTATIONS 

The  kiss  of  kindlier  mouths! 

Yet  the  end  of  all  is  written, 
And  nothing,  O  rose-leaf  woman. 
You  ever  may  dream  or  do 
Henceforth  can  bring  me  anguish 
Or  crown  my  days  with  joy! 

Three  tears,  O  stately  woman, 
You  said  could  float  your  soul. 
So  little  a  thing  it  seemed! 
Yet  alt  that's  left  of  life 
I'd  give  to  know  your  love, 
I'd  gii-c  to  show  my  love. 
And  feel  your  kiss  again! 


I  SAT  IN  THE  SUNLIGHT 
I  SAT  in  the  sunlight  thinking  of  life; 
I  sat  there,  dreaming  of  Death. 

And  a  moth  alit  on  the  sun-dial's  face. 

And  the  birds  sang  sleepily, 

And  the  leaves  stirred. 

And  the  sun  lay  warm  on  the  hills, 

And  the  afternoon  grew  old. 

So,  some  day  I  knew  the  birds  would  sing, 

And  the  leaves  would  stir, 

And  the  afternoon  grow  old  

And  I  would  not  be  there. 

And  the  warmth  went  out  of  the  day, 

And  a  wind  blew  out  of  the  West  where  I  sat. 

And  the  birds  were  still ! 
132 


! 


